Ungodly Hours
by deeedeee
Summary: Married Chelsie fluff. Bonus: an extra 20% gibberish at no added cost to you, the reader! It's a response to a leetle tumblr tease prompt thingie: "Who in your OTP asks the weird questions in the middle of the night and who hits the other one in the face with a pillow?"


**Ooooops, I'm breaking my hiatus (my NipS hiatus {*****_sob* I miss writing that story_****}) to respond to a little tumblr tease!**

**"Who in your OTP asks the weird questions in the middle of the night and who hits the other one in the face with a pillow?"**

**...Well. I can't imagine Elsie or Charlie ****_actually_**** hitting one another in the face with pillows, but… you'll see. These are just five little snapshots, not one single night / morning. Also, it's drowning in fluffy fluff (Literally, Charlie even thinks he's covered in fluff).**

**I hope you enjoy it.**

**Many thanks to kouw for helping me know when to stop with the symmetry, for nudging me toward clarity, and for helping me rein in the literary theory. xoxo. Bonus nerd points if you find the Walter Benjamin and Jacques Derrida in here.**

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He wakes her up with questions about the state of things.

He'll be staring at the ceiling and his thoughts run so fast that he forgoes the "_are you awake?"_ and goes straight to the matter at hand.

She is immediately alert when it's sudden. His voice cuts through her blur of sleep and she startles awake. Sometimes she'll be curled in the other direction, and she'll twist to her back and start to sit up, ready to fight or flee thanks to _decades_ of taking care of every little damn thing – but the emergency never comes. She rolls her eyes and lets herself fall back onto the pillow.

Her heart slows to normal as she listens to him. The adrenaline awakened her sarcasm just a little, and so her words – well. They don't quite _cut_; it's more of a sleepy little scratch.

"Much as I enjoy your dulcet tones, darling, is it _really_ necessary to talk about the flower beds _now_?"

"I – my _dulcet tones_?"

Her eyes are closed, but affection displaces irritation at the thought of his dear befuddled eyebrows shooting heavenward. She hums a little laugh, and in it he can hear _I love you_ and _yes, dulcet indeed _and _go to sleep, silly_. Rapidly she turns to him.

He has to jolt his arms out of the way and then his hands hover over her in surprise as she wraps her arm around his middle and lays her head on his chest. He's still not used to the warm, soft closeness of her.

They sigh and his arm settles around her shoulders.

"But don't you think marigolds would be nice in the front gar – agh, haha!"

She has reached up to shush him without opening her eyes, but her fingers have landed on his nose; they fumble downward to arrive at his laughing mouth.

"Shhhhh."

"Or would you prefer lilies of the valley? They have such a lovely fragrance." Now he's only teasing her; he's already about to pick up his pen.

"Write it _down_, Charlie; we'll talk about it _later_."

"But now I can't reach my book. My ladylove has me trapped here." She hears his mischievous smile, feels the deep sonorous rumble against her cheek.

"You'll manage," she mutters as he turns the lamp on.

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He is still talking as she falls asleep – a prosaic lullaby she half-tries to follow. She'll drift in and out of sleep until his tone happens to change, his voice suddenly louder and deeper.

"I can't imagine the Dowager would approve of –"

"Mmmh?" She pushes up on one hand, twisting around to look at him. The usual set of thoughts courses through her mind.

_What is this ? _– _Do I need to care? _– _Ahh._ _Something the Dowager might not approve of; __that_ _could be anything _– _Why must you wake me? _–

"Well, I suppose it's not _that_ far removed from the usual way of doing things, but it doesn't seem entirely _proper_ –"

"Charlie," she groans.

Satisfied that she doesn't need to concern herself immediately with whatever he's on about, she turns away, only to curl up and scoot back against him.

They hear their own twin sighs an octave apart as he turns on the lamp, reaches for reading glasses, pen, and book, and starts to write.

When he's finished emptying the tangle in his head onto the page, he closes the book and the pen, folds his reading glasses, and lays everything quietly on the table. He thinks momentarily of his decades of practice disappearing into the soundscape of a room – except when booming, melodious pronouncements were called for.

His hand stills on the lamp, light lasting another few seconds while he watches her_. _She sighs in her sleep; maybe she knows he's about to join her. He turns off the lamp, lying down and pulling up covers. Inevitably it disturbs her a little and she stirs, humming as he nestles in close with his arm around her waist and his knees tucked up behind hers.

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"But you've got round to work in the polish –"

"Hmmmmmh … wha?" She turns toward him, instantly awake. Her nightgown slips off one shoulder as she pushes a few escaped wisps of hair out of her face and squints at the clock in the darkness; she's sure the hands point to _"ungodly."_

"Well, I'm not sure I agree."

"What on earth – ?"

"Surely they won't near fit out there. There's seldom room on the shelf for sets."

Leaning back on one hand, she sits scrubbing at her eyes.

"What are you _on_ about?"

"But set it out the gate, and we'll see."

She groans.

"No, out the gate, because it's cats and the moom is numble. Shoes. Mmmf…" and he heaves a great put-upon sigh. She smiles, her nose crinkling, and lies back down, drawing the covers up over her shoulder and turning toward him.

"You're a lucky man, Charlie," she says softly.

At his name he wakes up.

"Wha – huh? Is something wrong?"

Her voice is stronger and more playful as she repeats herself.

"I said you're lucky. Because the times I'd most like to hit you with a pillow, I'm too tired to put forth the effort."

He chuckles at her empty threat. "I was talking, wasn't I."

"Yes. Something about polish," she mutters, turning toward him and gently pushing him to turn onto his side. "And cats and a gate and –" She yawns.

"Sorry, pet. I woke you, hmmm?" He rolls over, away from her, and she wraps herself around him.

"Mm-hmm. Someday maybe I'll write down the ridiculous things you say." Her chest is to his back, her legs nowhere near being able to curl around behind his, but she holds on anyway, kisses his shoulder, and nestles her face in on the pillow behind him.

"Mm'hope you will."

A snappy comeback trudges to mind, but she's too tired – and he's already snoring again.

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"...such a wee thing and already a big sister."

He tries to listen, especially when it's something she seems genuinely worried about.

"I hope she's _ready_ for another one so soon. Lizzie has only just been weaned."

"But she is... _happy_ about it?"

"Oh yes. Well... these days the poor thing can barely keep anything down."

"Hmmmm." Though not terribly comfortable with this topic of conversation, he'll try. He keeps his response to the news of _that_ unpleasantness minimal.

"But otherwise, I think so, yes."

"You do know that you've–" and he turns over to face her – "that you've been a great help to her." His voice is quiet, half-sigh. His hand finds hers.

"Hmmm. I suppose so."

She is quiet for a moment and he starts to drift off. Then –

"Charlie, do you think –" He's startled when she suddenly turns toward him, propped up on her elbow with her hand on his arm.

"Huh wha– ?"

"Do you think it will be a boy or a girl?"

His brow furrows; he wonders how she expects him to answer such a question. So he just mumbles "probably," and smiles a little at her exasperated huff.

"I think a boy would be nice," she continues. "One of each then. You could teach him to play cricket. They might name it after you, you know."

Charlie must really be forgiven his rather lackluster response, since this stunning news is delivered in a conversational tone that fails to cut through his sleep.

"I think that's too money many, though. What if that's is not enough time tea for Mrs Patmore..." The rest is utter gibberish.

Her initial surprise and vague hurt at his nonchalant "_that's too many_" turns to amusement as she realizes what's happened.

She smiles indulgently at him, extracts her hand from his insistent grip, and takes her own book to write down the lists in her mind. Supplies and due dates, letters to write, visits to arrange. When she was Housekeeper she kept a book like this by her bed to record the niggling thoughts that would otherwise have deprived her of precious sleep. Writing it out helped her lessen the (always well-hidden) worries that some detail might have been forgotten in the elaborate plans for this party or that dinner. Or the odd wedding, now and then.

She smiles at the memory of their modest wedding day and then shivers happily at the memory of their wedding _night_. Well... _afternoon_, really. She sets her book and pen down, and smiles at her beautiful man.

Maybe this time she'll wake him up.

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He's had the strangest dream. There's a game in which he is supposed to throw a feather pillow to her. When he swings the pillow, which has turned into a grouse in his hands, she crooks her little finger and the pillow goes up in a puff of feathers and she falls into him, laughing, and kisses him.

She wins the first round.

How, and what that entails – these things are not clear. It might have something to do with the pattern in which the feathers land.

It goes on – different animals and even cakes take the place of pillows; there are inexplicable changes in location and rules – until they are covered in feathers and it's too hot and they tickle his nose. He wakes up stifling under the duvet with the end of her braid somehow in his face.

So he'll get up and open the window because the summer air is too delicious to ignore. Then he'll come back to bed and tell her the story of the pillow fight dream. She'll crinkle her nose and laugh with him at the absurdity of it, and shush him again, this time not with her fingers to his lips but with a kiss.

And they'll make love, slow and long, no bells to summon them and no problems to solve. No one but each other to take care of today. He'll kiss her thighs, sucking hard on her pale skin and she'll laugh, and he'll smile with her as she tells him he can mark her; that's all right with her. She's done the same to him before.

She'll sit up, lay him down and kiss him, soft and demanding, and she'll take her hair out of its braid, letting it cascade over one shoulder, her eyes sliding closed as she slowly welcomes him, her beautiful man under her with his clear eyes and strong hands. They speak in pleas moaning chants repeated whispering profanity. In bliss they both lose track of language until they fall spent together, sleepy lovers side by side on this lush green morning.

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a/n I would love to hear what you think of this fluff-soaked little blurb. Please leave me a review if you have a moment. Many thanks!


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